And not a soul to hear
by TheHatMan98
Summary: Outside they can hear men shouting. They're looking for him. With each statue they pass, the heavier they stare at him. Lions and empty suits of polished, golden armour, it doesn't matter; they all stare at him with Lord Tywin's eyes. His father's eyes.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

"Now get up!"

He is on the floor now. Knocked silent, across the full length of the cobble stone floor. Lying dazed, he turns his head sideways; from out of one eye he can still see the gate. If someone can walk out and see him they would help. They'd see his blonde hair and crimson and gold robes and know who he is. They would help.

Another kick hits him in his ribs. One blow in the right place, with the right amount of force, could kill him. He knows that now. Blood empties from the gash across his forehead and trickles right across the rest of his bloodied self. That had been Ser Amory's first effort on him. From out of his left eye he can see nothing, but he can still see out of the right. He sees that the knights boot is unravelling.

"So now get up!" Amory Lorch is raging down at him, his piggy eyes already looking for where he can strike next. After lifting his head an inch off the ground he uses the weight of it to put him on his belly, but this exposes his hands which Amory only tramples on. The fingers are broken surely but the knight would not relent. Lorch's enjoying himself so much he is laughing down at him.

"What are you a slug?" Asks the man sworn to his father. "I thought all Lannisters were lions." His attacker pulls back. For a moment it's all over, but Lorch comes back as fast as his piggish body can allow and delivers the next kick to his head while running.

The air is knocked from him again, and some teeth fly out from his mouth. His head hits the ground again, with a crack that splinters the rest of his teeth. Nothing hurts though, that's what worries him. Or mayhaps everything hurts and he can't notice because it's so unbearable.

Ser Amory Lorch is bellowing about his burst boot now. He doesn't care, he's trying to keep breathing. The blood has clotted up his entire noes, so his mouth is how he keeps the shattered lungs going. Inch by inch he is crawling forward. Amory notices this and comes back around just as he has started puking his guts up. "That's right," Lorch is yelling, "Spew everywhere. I'll pick through it for gold once you're done."

He turns his head sideways again and rests on the sick. His hair is full of the stuff, he can feel, and the dirt from the cobbles. No one will recognize it, even if they're bold enough to come close to the knight. He's just brutalizing another peasant, his father's men will think because that's what Ser Amory Lorch does. And when they tell Lord Tywin that they'll be hanged if they're lucky. A Lannister always pays his debts. But will Amory Lorch hang? He killed the three-year old Princess Rhaenys Targaryen and was rewarded for it. Cersei would give him a lordship once she hears that Amory has killed her brother, but she'll be disappointed to hear that it wasn't the dwarf one.

In the distance he can hear shouting that isn't Ser Amory's. Dogs are barking somewhere and he wonders if Clegane has come to help finish the job, beat his head off the floor as though he were the baby Aegon. At least he doesn't have a mother to be raped as well. He lets out a final gasp of air and feels that ground give out beneath him.

The sensation of movement hurts him, right down to the bones that haven't broken yet. It feels that the ground has turned into the waters off of Lannisport. They sway and fold beneath him. Noise hits his ear without mercy, there's more shouting now. But he closes his ears, or the Mother had taken mercy on his plight and closed them for him. Now he waits for the Stranger to come and the waters pull him on a tide into blackness.

The next thing he knows it is close to dark and he's propping himself up on the doors to the Lion's Mouth, inside of Casterly Rock. He is lucky; it's Aunt Genna who finds him first, and not Lord Tywin. Her mouth opens wide in astonishment. "Look at you!"  
He tries asking her not to shout but he knows he can't talk, everywhere is still hurting. The sight of her nephew close to death nocks the kindness out of her. "Fighting again?"

Yes, he wants to shout at her so loud that Jaime he can hear him from King's Landing, but I didn't loose again, that's not why I'm like this. Instead he nods and blood from his mouth and nose flies everywhere. Can you not see that Amory Lorch has been hear, he seems to be indicating.

Aunt Genna takes him into a room, one of the halls close by, and quietly summons for a basin full of water, for cloth, for the Father above to rise up and rip out the heart of man who has done this to her nephew. She sits him on a bench in the hall, but he fights her all the way. I've just gotten up, please don't make me go back down, please don't let father see me so weak. Please. Please, mother, stop the hurting.

"Sit. Don't talk." Genna says.

When the basin comes, she stands over him and dabs the eye with wet cloth. She works small circles around his eye and hair line. No maester is called for, Genna knows that will not help for his father to find out before someone can explain what has happened to his second son. She swears under her breath and keeps a hand on his shoulder. Sometimes she lets the tears slip from her eyes and rubs his back.

"There, there, hush hush." She whispers to him, as though he were crying. He isn't, it's just blood, and the everywhere that is hurting. He wants to rest on her and wrap his arms round her. But he doesn't want to mess her up and get the blood on her crimson gown. Even blood can be seen through the crimson of House Lannister, he knows that better than most. So do the Targaryens, and the Martells, and the Reyenes. Who could forget the Reyenes? The singers of Lannisport never cease to sing about the Reyenes of Castamere.

When the doors to the hall opens again he is afraid. It's father, he knows, and he shut his ears again. But again he is luck, it is not Lord Tywin but instead his brother, Gerion. He stands by his sister looking down at him. without words and, for once, without a laugh. A fist is made. "That!" He shouts, shaking his fist in the air. "That's what he'll get from me! From me! Tywin can have what's left," he shakes his fist again, "but this is what he'll get from me."

Only after his face has turned as red as his jacket does Gerion think to inquire who 'he' is. But before an answer can be given, Genna is waving him off. "Just stand back," she advises. "Do you want bits of Tybolt all over yourself?"

He doesn't, and backs off. "I wouldn't care, but look at him, Genna. It can't of been a fair fight. Even our Jaime couldn't do that to him."

"No fairer a fight than he gave back," Genna says. "What did you have to fight him with?" My fists, I wasn't trying to kill him. He shakes his head, but more blood flows from the cuts on his head. "Don't do that!" Genna snaps at him when the blood is running free again. With her hand she wipes it away. It's everywhere: her hands, her gown, her hair and his.

The interrogation goes on from Uncle Gerion. Lord Tywin's brother settles that the first thing he was hit with was a hard, heavy, sharp object right across his brow. He hears this theory and tries to tell them about Armory Lorch's boot, but the effort of moving his mouth is too big a strain. However, by the large Gerion's theory is correct.

Once that was established, Genna set about deducing the cause. "What were you doing to set him off, Tyb," They still haven't found out who has done this to him. That might be left for Lord Tywin to discover on his own.

"Fighting..." He splutters. "Son... killed... I..." He trails off and coughs up and a hell of a lot more blood. It hits Gerion in tha face and bits of his teeth bounce off of Genna's gown, a shower of blood following each piece. They decide it's best not to know the rest.

Who he was fighting, and the name and reason are gone, all but one; Gregory Lorch, Armory's son. His crime; being Lorch's son and for laughing about his father and Princess Rhaenys. Tyb had almost caved the lads head in, everything else had been the boys that had tried to back Lorch up. Or at least that's what he think happened.

Genna and Gerion turn there backs on him and start to squabble about what they should do next. Gerion says that some of the servants had seen him walk in the keep and that Lord Tywin would be looking for him soon, if he already wasn't. Their talking disipates because everywhere is still hurting. A tear slips out. Mother, he wants to cry, make it stop. Instead he moans: tries to do it without interupting.

Genna notices. "There, there, there," She whispers. "You'd better stay hear for a while." She turns back to her brother and they speak as though he couldn't hear. "It can't go on like this. If he keeps coming back from Lannisport all bloodied, Tywin will wash the streets out with the stuff."

"He could go to the capital," Gerion offers, "Jaime and Cersei had been before Tyb was this old." I've been to King's Landing, he wants to say. With father and his army. With fire and sword. With Amory Lorch and Gregor Clegane.

"He won't... like it." Was what he mumbled out, and there was no doubt about who 'he' was this time.

Genna shushes him. "You leave your father to us, Tybolt." She tells him, before turning back to Gerion. "What about you? You're going to Essos aren't you? The sea air alone could be good for him."

Gerion is turning pale. He's more concered about having to convince his brother to do anything. "I'll think about it." He says, glancing at his nephew. Gerion demonstrates his fist again. His little nervy punch.

It was dark before they moved from the hall, and with luck they have not been found. Gerion and Genna manage to sneak him up to his quaters, underneath the darkness. Outside they can hear men shouting. They're looking for him. With each statue they pass, the heavier they stare at him. Lions and empty suits of armour, it doesn't matter; they all stare at him with Lord Tywin's eyes. His father's eyes.

Again, he is lucky. Only once he is with in his room, and Genna and Gerion had just closed it on themselves as they left, were they caught. He doesn't care. He knows that they won't enter here if Aunt Genna can help it, Gerion he has less faith in. Outside, the rise and fall of voices can be heard. He can't pick out every word but the one who has caught them is almost certain.

His father. Or if not his uncle Kevan, in which case Lord Tywin will not be far behind. They can be heard through the door. Gerion is nervous, talking about the theory of events that led them here. Genna is repenting her suggestion of sending him to the capital, or across the see with uncle Gerion.

He lies on his bed, thinking. The resolve in his head is certain. I am not staying here. Partly, that's because the memory of the fight is coming back to him, about the events of the morning. There had been a knife sprung up somewhere, but whoever it had been stuck wasn't him. So... had he stuck it in someone else. Gregory, he thinks, and then Armory found him on the road and almost left him for dead. He can't stay here anyway, Lord Tywin has become an undeniably big cunt of late; and it is he and Tyrion, poor, small, sweet Tyrion, who suffers for it.

Only once the shouting stops does sleep find him, and for that at least he is gratefull. Once the mornig comes however he is not gratefull. Gerion comes for him, with clothes and water to wash with. There is a maester as well, to bandage his wounds. Nothing is said though, that bothers him. Gerion, he thinks, did not have an easy nights sleep if he did get any at all.

Once the bandages are in place and he is fully dressed, Gerion leads him from his quarters and there is no doubt as to where he is being led. When they enter the solar Gerion hangs back while he goes in alone. Inside, his father is speaking with Ser Kevan but once they notice him they stop. With an unblinking nod Uncle Kevan is dismissed and joins his brother outside leaving the father and son alone.

Lord Tywin is taller than him, just like Jaime, however Aunt Genna tells hi that he'll outgrow both before long. But not yet. So instead he has to look up at his father as any good son should. The gaze of his father is relentless and unforgiving, like the look he gives Tyrion whenever they are in the same room together.

"Tybolt," is the only greeting given.

He scowls at his father, who scowls back at him. He knows. Everything. The fight, the knife, Ser Armory on the road, Genna and Gerion's plan about sending him away. So now he waits for an accord to be reached, for the Father above and below both to pass judgement on him.

"There is no easy way out of this for you." His father tells him, "You know that."

He nods. "I'll be on my way, then." Though whether it is the Wall, the road to King's Landing or the hangman's noose that awaits him he does not know.

His father sighs. "Yes, you'd better." Lord Tywin looks out the window, out to the sea and horizon beyond. "Your uncle, Gerion, means to sail for Essos. Perhaps abroad is the best place for you."

A pause.

"For how long, must I stay away?" It's the first time he has spoken all day, his voice is brittle like frosted glass.

"A while."

Or forever. He thinks he wouldn't mind that, leaving Casterly Rock and Lannisport behund him. The Free Cities are were boys go to be men, or so he heard Uncle Kevan say. "When will we leave?"

"Today. Given that you're fit enough to walk, I have sent men to ready your uncle's ship for the journey. Ser Addam promised me it will be ready before nightfall. You have until then to make your farewells and gather your things."

That is cruel. To send him away so soon, so coldly, so unfeeling. Less than a day. To most that would be long enough, but not him. Not when you have a little brother like Tyrion to say goodbye to, and make sure he won't cry when you wave goodbye to each other, else father will have him dragged back inside and not let the dwarf see daylight for another year or more.

Then there was Jaime, in King's Landing protecting King Robert and Cersei, to think of. He'll have to write to them. But what will he say? Sorry brother, but we might not see each other again, love Tybolt. He might as well not write at all. By the time Jaime gets the letter he will be long gone.

Father looks at him, and for a moment at least, he is sorry. But the moment is fleeting and then he is not. He nods at the door. "Go," he says and his son does as he is bid.

The weather is cold but the see is flat. For that he is thankful. Even though everywhere still hurts it only does when he moves. Gerion is away on the top deck of the ship, talking with the captain. Meanwhile he, Tybolt, stands steady looking to see Lannisport retreat into the distance. As his home disappears, he fingers the medal that Tyrion had given him to wear.

It's slung about his neck with a cord. The chill against his throat unnerves him. He unloops it, touches it to his lips for luck and drops it. The sea consumes it without a second thought. This sight he will remember: the open sea. A vast grey wrinkled entity, stretching from his feet to the horizon, like the memories of a childhood dream.


	2. Across the Narrow Sea

**coldblue:** Hopefully this chapter answers most of your questions

* * *

 **Across the Narrow Sea**

The interesting thing about King's Landing is that even at sea you can smell it before you see it. It was like that the last time he was there, though the last time he had left it with the smell of the city burning and the dead still rotting in his nostrils. This time he doesn't know how he will leave it and in truth he doesn't want to even go there, doesn't even want to return to Westeros full stop.

Some would say he has to return to Westeros. He was born there, his family is there, it is his home. To them he says, Westeros is not home because I have no home. If he was to call anywhere home it would be Braavos because that is where he has lived for the past five years, it was where he worked and it is where his business still resides.  
Though, he thinks, that may change soon. Now that he is returning it is unlikely he will leave. Lord Tywin would chain him down to Westeros if it meant keeping him there. His father has tried five times to bring him back and now that he is returning will not leave so long as the Old Lion can help it. He sniffs the air and now he can see the city.

A ship boy runs by him. Before the boy can get far he shouts him to stop. He does so and turns to face him. In Braavosi he asks the boy how long until they make port. The boy is afraid of him, he knows, as he should be perhaps. Of his name, of who he is, why he on the ship, why he does not want to go back to Westeros and can't stay in Essos anymore. The boy stammers out that they will be in King's Landing before noon and runs away from as fast as his can carry him.

Tybolt Lannister is now fast approaching forty years old. He is a man of strong build, but by no means tall. At least compared to his father and older brother, who he has not seen for the past ten years. Various expressions are available to his face, and only one of them is easily read: an expression of stiffened amusement. His hair is golden, heavy and waves in the breeze, and his eyes are green and small though he can see better than a hawk; in a good conversation they will light up.

In Braavos, it is said that he knows all the Iron Banks counting books off by heart in the Common Tongue, Braavosi and Dothraki, however only two of them he speaks fluently, the third he can only threaten and insult people in. He can resight the Seven Pointed Star and the Ancient Books of Asshai backwards and is always ready to catch out a poorly trained red priest or floundering septon. His speech is deep and rapid in deliverance, his manner smooth and assuring; he is at home in courtroom or battlefield, inn yard or septrey. He can draft a bill of sale, train a soldier, stop a fight in the street, start a riot and write a law. He will quote you the best points from the Dragon Kings, from the first Aegon to the fifth and back again. He works all hours, first out of bed and last to it. He makes money and spends it. He will take a bet on anything.

And right now the bet he is willing to make is how much the wind will pick up. Quite a bit as turns out, the oars of the ship kicking up froth and spouting foam as the sails flutter and swell with new air from the east. In the harbour of King's Landing, his ship is the biggest that is not apart of the royal fleet. Five sails, each hanging from their own mast, and carrying two hundred oars, the Leviathan would look more at home thundering down on Lysian pirates in the stepstones than carrying silk, jewels, cotton and lace for the tailors of King's Landing. Tailors who are always willing to pay twenty dragons for something that's worth five.

As they pull along side one of the dock's many piers, the captain approaches his employer. "Master Tybolt," He says in clunky Braavosi, "We stay long?"

Tybolt looks at the captain. He is a great hulking Tyroshi, a veteran from the naval war with Lys, with skin black as ink. "I will," he tells the captain. "Though you will sell what you can here and make for Dorne. When you're there buy spices and peppers, then make for Gulltown and back to Braavos after that." The captain bows to him, turns on his heels and goes back to making sure that the ship is being properly moored on the dock.

As soon as the gang plank is dropped, Tybolt is away. His things will stay on the ship until he has decided whether or not staying is worth it or not, meanwhile he walks along the dock and looks around to see if his father has any men in the harbour to escort him.

When it comes to decent trading, there are better place to go than King's Landing, better places than Westeros in general. The whole country is filthy: weather, people, morals, money. It doesn't matter when it's all the same dirty colour. King's Landing's harbour is a doghole, a free-for-all in which outsider's purses swell and the native's pockets shrink. Men in wagons and carts barter with fishwives over the price of decent cut of meat, which you know just by looking is over priced and half rotting.

In a harsh winter this whole city will starve, Tybolt thinks as he strides through the crowd. He's been in a city under siege and knows what the starving will do for food when they've gone without it for long enough. By the start of next summer, this city will have shrunk in half and the richest will have been toppled in favour of anarchy. This is something Tybolt does regularly now, looking for the worst out of any situation, and it is something he actively tries to stop doing.

After circling the harbour three times he concludes that his father has not sent men to collect him, and then he wonders whether or not he is expected so early. He wonders this until the welcome arrives and almost runs him down. They come in flurry of flashing gold lion helms and flapping cloaks of the darkest crimson. Only one, the leader, does not wear the Lannister colours, his cloak was snow white to match his armour.

The peasant folk dive for cover and part like water on a rock before the retinue of armoured lions. They drive forward in such a force it comes as quite a shock when he is the only one standing in the path they are forced to stop at their own displeasure. From the head of the column the one in the white cloak calls down to him, "Move out of the way!"

He doesn't, instead he smiles. It may have been more than ten years since he has seen or spoken with his brother but will always recognize his voice. "If that's how you're going to greet me, Jaime," he shouts back, "I'll get back on my bloody boat."

Jaime stares at him. He stares at him for a good while. Jaime stares at him for so long he has to dismount his horse and look up close to recognize his big brother. They approach each other warily, never leaving eye contact. Tybolt meets his brother half way but this puts Jaime on edge and a hand goes to his sword. "Is it... is it really you, Tybolt?"

Tybolt frowns at his brother. "That depends... Has Tyrion grown a lot in my absence?"

They share a smile, because now Jaime knows he has his brother back. But then he frowns at the brother he hasn't seen for more than a decade. "I should punch you." Jaime tells him.

"You can try," He shoots back, "But you better knock me out in one. I won't need a second."

Jaime's scowl is reversed. "You always were a brawler." He comments.

* * *

On their ride up to the Red Keep, Tybolt finds eager company in his brother. Although the fact Jaime never stops looking at him has the hairs on the back of his neck on end. He is already afraid of losing me. In order to put Jaime at ease he turns to a topic that always set calmed him as a boy. "How is our sister?"

As expected Jaime's eyes light up. "Well, although she has her moments."

"Robert? Or Tyrion?"

"Both. Though mostly Robert." Jaime's cheek gives an envious twitch in the middle of his flashing grin. "They have children." He pauses and realizes, "You are an uncle."

"Am I? To how many?"

"Three. Two boys, Joffrey and Tommen, and a girl, Myrcella."

"They don't expect gifts do they?"

Jaime frowns and gives it along think over. "Joff might, though they might all just be content with getting to know you. Tyrion is not the most 'subtle' of uncles."

He laughs. "I can imagine. Does Tyrion still have the same wicked tongue?"

"Yes, so expect to receive quite the whipping."

"Well you'll have to wait a little. Cersei has arranged for us all to dine together. We can play catch up better then."

"Good. It's been a while since I've had a decent conversation."

They go on silently for a while, however Tybolt then remembers the last person he hasn't asked about. "How are you, Jaime?"

His little brother looks at him and smiles. "I'm happy to have my big brother back." The pause is an awkward one. "And so is father."

He bites his lip. "He hasn't even met me yet. No doubt he'll disapprove of me."

Despite looking away from his brother, Tybolt knows he is being scowled at; it brands itself onto his face. "It wasn't his fault that you were sent away," Jaime says, "and if you resent him so much for it why has it taken you so long to come back to us, when Gerion came back to us after one year."

Tybolt bites his tongue. He will not fight with his brother when it is the first time they have seen each other for passed a decade. Jaime takes his point as made and turns his head away. "When we get back to the Red Keep you'll go straight to father."

He can't help but snicker. "Will I?"

"Yes," Jaime orders, spiting venom at him. "You will."

* * *

By now, Lord Tywin must be approaching well beyond fifty years old, however he concedes nothing to the years which have been taken from him. Flint faced and keen eyed, he is as lean as a man half is age and as cold as the edge of a blade. Tybolt recalls a time when he and his father were both much younger, and the whole of Lord Tywin's body seemed to be sewn together by his chain of office as Hand of the King. Though the chain was no longer there, none of the power the badge has given him has diminished. If anything it has increased, because even in Braavos they know that Lord Tywin owns the half of the Seven Kingdoms that his good son, Robert Baratheon, can no longer afford to run.

His father fixes him a fiery eye, brilliant green and flicked with gold. "So, Tybolt, you have returned to us."

He bows his head. "My lord."

"How long has it been?"

"Ten years? Eleven? I stopped counting after the Rock vanished from the horizon."

Lord Tywin scowls at him. He paces; the ghost of a rattling chain harries him as he goes. "Well you've been gone long enough surely you must have done something with yourself in Essos."

"I soldiered for a while."

This does not surprise his father, there are few things for an exile to do in Essos but soldier. "With who?" Asks the Lord of the Rock.

"A few small companies at first, but eventually I joined the Second Sons. Spent two years with them."

"Who were you working for?"

"Volantis at first. They were trying extend along the Demon Road to Mantarys." Lord Tywin gives an expectant look. "We won." He finshes. "After that we were at Tyrosh, fighting over the Disputed Lands."

His father gives him a curious look. "Do the Tyroshi still think of ruling everywhere up to the Rhoyne?"

He can't help but snort. "Show me one that doesn't and I'll eat my boot." Lord Tywin is not impressed by the idea; a Braavosi would have taken the bet and a Norvosi would have laughed. "They can't win and they know it," he goes on, "but they have to fight as though they can. The waste means nothing to them - coin, men, horses, ships. Hang the expense, is what they say."

"They sound like fools."

He shrugs. "Fools with plenty of coin. There are worse people to fight for."

Silence.

Lord Tywin does not approve that his son was exiled to become little more than a common sellsword. But then a thought comes to him, a memory. "The Disputed Lands?" Tybolt nods. "With Tyrosh and the Second Sons." He nods again. "Were you at Ayo.. Aryon..." The phrasing of the Myrish backwater alludes Lord Tywin.

"Ayonaka. I was."

His father frowns at him. He does not appreciate that his son fought on the loosing side of a war. "Quite a battle, I heard, but the wrong side."

"You try stopping a line of charging war elephants with a shattered line and fifty short spears."

This new information earns him some reprieve from Lord Tywin's disapproval. "Ayonaka," he says it while threatening to chuckle, "Ayonaka. And how did you scramble out of that mess?"

"I went north, to Braavos. Got into..." He's going to say money, but Westerosi struggle with the idea of trading in money. "Trade. Silk mostly, and jewels. Norvos and Braavos are the best places for it. And helped the Iron Bank with funding some lesser lords."

This surprises his father. "Did you really? The Iron Bank? How well did that go?"

"Very well. Eventually I stopped working with them, made tracks of my own and went on to work with the First Sea Lord of Braavos."

Lord Tywin inclines his head and raises an eyebrow. "Doing what?"

"Trading, financing, making sure he didn't have to borrow money. Whatever was needed of me."

"That is why you couldn't come home?" His father is eager to know.

"In part." The vagueness unsettles him. His father's unforgiving eyes scan him without mercy, trying to pick him a part and unravel his second son to see if he is still worthy of the name Lannister. Tybolt returns the gesture. The golden hair has vanished and is replaced by a head as bald as an egg, but bushy golden side-whiskers still grow out of his father's face. When Lord Tywin's eyes reach his face they meet each other's gaze. The eyes are as he remembers: calculating, intelligent, astute, ruthless, and controlling. He feared these eyes once, but no longer - imposing as he might be Lord Tywin would not withstand him in a fight, though it would undoubtedly be a good one.

"You look like a foreigner." He is told as an insult.

"I am a foreigner." He replies which causes his father to scowl, which in turn causes him to think that if he is scowled at again he will peel it from his father's face.

Lord Tywin points at something on his chest. "What is that?"

He looks down, and knows what his father sees. His left hand climbs up his chest and grasps the medal, he tugs on it twice and shows it to Lord Tywin who nods. "A gift." The answer is simple, but the story behind it is complex.

"From who?" Lord Tywin is loosing patience for the son he had to banish for testing it so much.

"My wife."

The expression is a stranger to the face of Lord Tywin. Pure unbridled panic, mixed with a lion's rage; Lord Tywin looks as though Tybolt has just dropped his draws and pissed all over his father's boots. "You have a wife?" He is surprisingly calm.

He has to shake his head grimly. "Not anymore."

"Ah." His father is sorry now. Sorry and understanding. "How?"

"A sweating sickness. It comes to Braavos every year and no one is safe - it kills in less than a day."

"How long were you wed?"

He swallows down the burning lump in his throat. "Seven? Eight years? We had children: two daughters. They died in the next plague."

His father sighs. "I know what that feels like, to loose a wife and child. I am sorry."

The growl is instinctive because he has heard the words a thousand times before from a thousand men. It is a thousand times too many for his ears, so now whenever he hears it someone always looses a tooth. But just as the fist is about to fly, he holds for the first time in his life. Perhaps Lord Tywin, his father, can know what such a loss is like. It is something in which he can take comfort.

* * *

He and Jaime spend the rest of the day scouring the city for Tyrion without success. Their brother is hiding from him, Jaime says. The dwarf has been promising to pull his bollocks off since he has heard his big brother was coming back to Westeros and Jaime thinks it's best that they leave Tyrion to meet them at dinner, where father will stop the Imp from pulling anyones anything off.

Tybolt declines. He has to apologies to his brother, for leaving him so brutally with a hug for goodbye only. For leaving him alone under the merciless rule of Lord Tywin with no protector. Tyrion, he will say, I am sorry, do what you will with me and my bollocks.

The search turns up nothing. Every brothel and wine cellar is searched but nothing is turned up. No dwarf, no apologies, they head back for the Red Keep for the dinner Cersei has set out for his returned. When they enter they are not the first to have arrived. There are two small people facing each other either side of the table.

One is a boy, which he had almost taken for Tyrion with his fat cheeks and white blond hair. The other is a girl, delicate and beautiful, she reminds Tybolt of Cersei as a little girl. Jaime strides toward them with razor grin flashing. "Tommen," he says, "Myrcella." The children fly toward their uncle at first glance, jumping up and down before him and hugging at his legs.

Jaime picks the girl up who squeals with laughter. The boy tugs on the white cloak of Ser Jaime and demands that he be picked up as well. His sister sticks her tongue out and puffs out her chest. No, she seems to be saying, I am older and you must wait. Yes, Tybolt decides, this is definitely Cersei's girl.

It is the girl who notices the foreigner in the doorway, and is afraid of him immediately. "Ser Uncle," she says to Jaime, "Who's that?"

Jaime turns with his grin cracking like a whip. "That, Myrcella, is your uncle."

She frowns and turns back to Jaime. "That's not Uncle Tyrion!" The girl declares.

Ser Uncle laughs. "No it's not." He agrees with his niece. "This is your uncle Tybolt."

He waves. "Hello." He says, "I am your uncle Tybolt."

The boy is not as shy as his sister. Perhaps he does not know enough to be afraid of him. "Hello, uncle." He says and reaches out a hand like he has been taught to when meeting new people. Tybolt takes the hand and shakes it. Tommen giggles gleefully; it is the first time he has shaken anyones hand.

After that, Myrcella was quick to warm up to him. He's always had a knack with small children ever since he was a boy. While Myrcella may look like Cersei when she was a girl, she is far sweeter and smarter than Cersei was at that age. Tommen is just Tommen - He seems to be neither Jaime nor Cersei nor Tyrion, which causes him to wonder whether or not he was like this as a boy.

Just as they were beginning to settle down, Cersei enters commanding all eyes to her at once. The children, who had been so warm and happy before, stand up as cold and straight as statues. Cersei is a strikingly beautiful woman with classic Lannister looks: blonde hair, brilliant green eyes, fair skin, and a slender, graceful figure. Though there are dull cracks in her armour. The fine features had blurred from what he remembered of them and her bright eyes had gotten duller with the years of bad marriage.

She looks at him from the doorway. "And where have you been?"

He shrugs at her. "Oh... here and there."

"You look like a foreigner."

At that he smirks. "I'll tell you what I told father: I am a foreigner."

"So, brother dear, what have you been doing with yourself?"

He could imagine himself saying, "This and that." He did say it.

Cersei takes offense to this. "You have not mended your manners then. You may have forgotten in exile, but I am the Queen. You owe me your respect."

"And whatever happened to respecting your elders, little sister?" She has not changed much then. Respect, she imagines, can be pulled from the same arse as the title she has. Book reading is still an affectation to her, and no doubt she wishes there was less of it in the world. As boys her brothers were always reading, which is perhaps they have done so poor in life. She does not see why any high born should have to write; there are clerks for that.

A scathing onslaught is on the edge of her tongue, but it is a look from Jaime that silences her quickly. Instead she motions behind her and produces another child, another boy. He was tall and slender with bright green eyes, like Jaime and fiercely pouty lips. For a lad his age he is handsome but in his eyes there was something - an evil sneer.  
"Joffrey," Cersei says, "This is you uncle, Tybolt."

The boy looks up at him as though his very existence were some great offense to him. "Mother said you were dead." States the boy, in robes of red satin and gold velvet.  
Tybot can't help but grin at this nephew. "I was but each time they put me in a hell I got spat back out." A lesser child would have been frightened, but not this one. He thinks that he has a new favourite uncle.

It was then Tyrion arrives, with stubby legs, a jutting forehead, mismatched eyes of green and black, and a mixture of pale blond and black hair. He smiles at Tyrion and says, "Valonqar, you have grown."

The dwarf growls at him. "You!"

His smile reverses and he goes to one knee. "I'm sorry," he says to the dwarf's face. Tyrion looks him in his eyes and then his big brother sees it. More than a life times worth of suffering crammed into two small and unkind eyes. But Tyrion can not find himself able to hate this brother who abandoned it.  
"Apology accepted," the Imp says simply, and nothing more is said until Lord Tywin arrives and the food is served.

The talk is all about him. They all demand stories from Essos, but there is little he can tell them in presences of children so young. He tells them what he can about fighting along the Rhoyne. Joffrey demands to hear of some daring act his favourite uncle has done before he grows bored, to which he asks if any of them have held a snake for a bet. They all quieten to hear the story.

All of the banks of the river Rhoyne are infested with snakes, he tells them, and I had to hold one till they, his comrades, counted to ten. They counted, rather slowly, in their slower languages. At four the snake was startled and angry. It flicked his head and bit into his wrist hard. Between five and six his grip only tightened, while blood trickled down his arm. "By the Blood of R'hllor, drop it!" One of them cried, as some prayed, some swore and he just kept on counting. By eight the snake looked sick and when they'd all agreed on ten, and not before, he eased the coiled body back into the river.

He collected his winnings and sat by the river to die, but he never did. All that happened was that his left punch is still a little slower than the right.

"Was it poisonous then?" Tyrion asks after he's done.

He gave his brother a grin. "That, Valonqar, was the bet."


	3. Meeting the Mockingbird

**coldblue:** He will go north and see the Starks however that is quite a long way off yet. Tywin will no doubt be considering matches however whether or not any come to fruition or are mentioned to Tybolt remains to be seen. He is wealthier than most merchants and some nobles but compared to the wealth of Casterly Rock it is still pretty miniscule. And as for Master of Coin, to do that he would have to push Baelish out and Baelish would only push back - looks like we have the antagonist, don't we ;)

* * *

 **Meeting the Mockingbird**

Tyrion, he thinks, would not like life in Braavos, in spite how much his little brother talks about wanting to go there. No, he would be far better suited in Volantis, provided of course he would not find his way into the chains of a slaver. The Volantenes habit of coupling all conversations with wine is very attuned to Tyrion's way of thinking.

When Tybolt tells his little brother this he snorts. "I've tried wine from Volantis," he says, but describing it is beyond his capabilities, and his face contorts into a look of disgusts at the thought of such a wine.

So they decide to stick with the red from the Arbor, instead. They move from talking about life in Essos and west, to this place he has to call home again, and what has happened while he was away. "The Greyjoy's revolted." Tyrion informs him to which he nods.

"I heard a little about that but not much. Tell me more."

Tyrion shrugs. "Not much to tell. Balon believed that Robert, as a usurper, might not have the strong support of the other lords the way that a Targaryen king would have. He also thought he could defeat Robert at sea."

He smirks. "He was wrong, I take it."

His little brother nods. "But he made a good go of it. Burned father's fleet to ashes in the middle of Lannisport."

Tybolt scoffs. "Bollocks," he says laughing.

The Imp concedes the unlikeliness but still persists the truth of the matter. "They did, I remember watching the smoke and dancing in the cinders."  
"I doubt father took that very kindly to that."

"No he didn't, but the Greyjoys got their own fleet smashed eventually. Stannis Baratheon broke the Iron Islanders longships at Fair Isle, and King Robert took Pyke once the way was open. Balon lost his fleet and all but one of his sons, who is now hostage to Eddard Stark."

"Hmm," Tybolt ran a hand through his hair. "That sounds like poor punishment for burning your goodfather's fleet to cinders."

Tyrion shrugged. "Robert has stomach enough for fighting a war, but once a peace is signed he bottles out of any fevour he had." The Imp turns his gaze to look out the window; the sun has long since dipped beneath the horizon. "Will you go back to Casterly Rock with father?"

"No, not yet at least. I have things that still need to come over from Braavos and they only know where to look for me in King's Landing, and I'm not about to risk loosing all of my money over one journey too far."

His smallest brother is curious. "What will you do in King's Landing?"

He takes a long draft of wine. "Work."

The Imp frowns at him. "What kind of work are you in?"

Tybolt can't help his cat like grin. "Are you looking for a job?"

"Are you looking for a smack?" Tyrion asks genuinely.

He laughs. "Alright, I might have a job for you. The best trader always has to be good friends with the second."

* * *

He has lived in the Red Keep for only a month and he is already moving out of it. Cersei does not approve of this. What's the point in moving out of the Red Keep only to stay in King's Landing, she asks him repeatedly. The first time he explained the reasons that a castle full of so many snakes is no safe home for a good business, she ended up starring blankly at him like a fish. When ever she asked him after that he asked her if she preferred living in the same castle as Tyrion any longer than she had to.

The house he buys is the biggest in King's Landing, and the perfect cradle for him to restart business across the sea. It is in the shadow of the Lion Gate but with the shinning, cloth-of-gold curtains he has tailored for it any shadow is dissolves in the light they catch. The house has its own stables, with a smithy for keeping the horses properly shoed, and the kitchens have room for five cooks and room for three boys for each of them as well, but the cooks that came with the place must have had pigs for mothers.

Running water is what he was promised, but nothing is running but the dog's nose. The larders are impoverished, with signs of ill keeping and quick plunder. All the flour is full of weevils, and droppings of mice and rats litter where pastry should be rolled. He storms to find someone who can write to take down his orders: you do this, then this and that find me him and clear all of this out. "Change your supplier. I want nutmeg and saffron. Saffron? Basil?" They look at him as though he were speaking in High Valyrian. He has Tyrion come down and make sure he isn't.

All the staff go and, with Cersei's permission, they take some of the Red Keep's staff. By the time his work and possessions have been ferried over from Braavos they have a presentable place of work and the business comes thick and fast with gold aplenty, which is more due to Tyrion than himself.

He is surprised - as they thrash out the years budget for spending on silk - at Tyrion's grasp of detail. Tyrion always had a fine mind, as quick as their father's, but more comprehensive. As Hand of the King, Lord Tywin kept a hard hand on all the money makers of Westeros; there was no nobleman or knight he did not have held in a tight bond or debt. Do not try and buy anyones love, Lord Tywin counseled his sons once, better to be feared with plenty than loved and in debt. Tyrion has a different approach on the same words, though it is hard to work out.

Other's begin to notice there success and ask for money. They lend it, but only so long as they know they can get it back. Plus the interest, he advises Tyrion, never forget the interest. After two months of good business, Tybolt writes to their father: we need men, young ones with good heads. Lord Tywin obliges with the tall order and sends some of their cousins.

Lancel is the oldest, with his green eyes and sandy hair, and in his five and ten years, looks like Jaime but only a poor copy and head twice as big; Tyrion often has to take him to one side and slaps some sense into him. Tyrek is the next oldest, but is nothing much to shout about: bright for his age, hair more like goldenrod, and dubbed 'Orphan' because his father, Tygett, is dead. Lucion is the last and quietest. Tyrion makes sure they do as they're all told, which is whatever he or Tybolt needs to be.

However these boys were flawed in one sense - they felt the house was open to anyone. Which was the reason why Tybolt always seemed to have one unfortunate or another waiting for him in his solar.

Tybolt entered his solar and the man rose from the chair. He looked at the man. A short man of slender build, with sharp features and gray-green eyes, a small pointed beard on his chin, and threads of grey running throughout his dark hair. Tybolt decides he does not like this fellow. They bow to each other before the stranger says, "My lord, I don't think I have heard of anyone in King's Landing with as much money as yourself. Must be the Lannister's golden touch."

"Thank you, ser." He is well dressed and knows who I am - a courtier for certain and a nosy one at that. "Who might you be? If I am allowed to be so bold."

The thin smile on the man's face widens before he introduces himself. "My name is Petyr Baelish, my lord. And I am King Robert's Master of Coin."  
Tybolt let one of his thick blond eyebrows to be raised. What would the Master of Coin be want with him? A spy of Cersei's perhaps, or maybe from another at the court. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Lord Baelish." Baelish... Baelish... Not a name native to Westeros, but this one had no Essoi accent.

"Due to the intense pressures on the Crowns finances, I am forced to ask for a loan from time to time," Baelish drew a piece of parchment from out of his cloak and presented it Tybolt.

Before taking the request he found himself starring the fellow in the eye and asking, "Does my good brother know about this?"

Laughter bursts forth from the mouth of Lord Baelish. "King Robert does not care for the finances of the realm. He finds it boring, and so finds his entertainment elsewhere."

He frowns. "And how much do you want?" One of Petyr's long, narrow fingers gesture to the parchment. Tybolt's eyes took longer than any man would feel comfortable to count all of the zeros. "That would be... a considerable amount of money."

Baelish shrugs. "Mayhaps. Can you provide it?"

Tybolt allows himself a nod. "Are all your loans from the Iron Bank this big?"

The Master of Coin is surprised by this. "Not many know that the crown does business with the Iron Bank."

"Not many people ever stop working at the Iron Bank either, but that doesn't stop all of Braavos knowing those that do."

"You worked for the Iron Bank?" Baelish's voice is riddled with humour.

"For a time. And everyone in Braavos knows that Robert's in debt with it."

Again, all Baelish does is laugh - pompous one, full of the false idea of knowing more about business than Tybolt. "The Iron Bank, the Faith, your father, the Tyrells. Better to spread out your debts than let them build. No?"

"I wouldn't know. I've never been in debt." Says Tyblolt while shrugging.

A silence dawns. Baelish taps his finger impatiently against one another. Something tells him that Lord Petyr has never been refused his gold for this long before. "How much interest are you looking for?"

"Five percent."

"And when can I expect to get it back?"

"That would depend on the mortality of King Robert." Tybolt frowns to whick end Baelish supplies, "Ten years?"

Tybolt runs his fingers over the numbers on the parchment. "I'd have to talk to King Robert about first."

Baelish looks irritated, and Tybolt finds a small amount of pleasure to be gotten from that. "There is no need," he insists, "I am the Master of Coin."  
He shrugs. "I would feel better about it if I could."

"Very well," Baelish concedes, "but on your head be it."

* * *

The King can be elusive. On the very few days that it seems that Tybolt has an appointment with his goodbrother, his true brother, Lord Stannis, is there to meet him instead. "Lannister, sit down," the Lord of Dragonstone all but growls at him. "Sit down and listen to me. Contain yourself and take the lessons to heart of which I am about to teach you, and put you straight on certain matters."

He watches him raging to and fro, Stannis the beast of Steffon's brood. King Robert's brother is a a giant like his brother. His face has a tightness to it like cured leather, and he has hollow cheeks that guard the thin, pale lips. The lines of his face flow with menace; he has great and hairy hands with knuckles that crack when a fist is balled.

Tybolt takes away the menace given and evens casts off the message. He's leaving the Red Keep, but can't manage it before Petyr Baelish has a chance to catch up with him. "Here again, I see." Baelish says with a menacing voice that makes him feel he has come too many times to see His Grace and should know better by now.

"Lord Petyr," he says with as much enthusiasm as a sheep has for being sheared.

"How long had you been left waiting this time?"

"Not long. Though I was under the impression that I had a meeting with my sister's husband and not his brother."

"Elusive, isn't he?" Baelish offers a smile that only the perfect sadist could produce. "Did you think because your sister throws some babies out of her cunt you have the right to speak with him?"

The corners of his lips turn. "Stannis said as much. How proud you must be to sound like a man who had three foot of spear inserted into his rectum." A letter flutters in Baelish's hand. "Where are you going?"

"To speak with Lord Arryn."

The Hand might be more approachable than his King. "Mind if I come?"

Baelish narrows his eyes. "You needn't bother yourself with that any more: your friends at the Iron Bank have been forth coming again."

"Still," he argues, "you may come to me again before long."

The walk takes him to a foreign part of the Red Keep; one that there had been no need to enter when sacking the place, one where no Targaryen had sought sanctuary. He had only ever known one had personally - his father - all the others had just been names by word of mouth, before being ripped apart by wildfire or whatever method the voices in the Mad King's head told him would be most enjoyable.

Lord Arryn is at a desk. His shoulders are broad with sandy blond hair, and an aquiline nose. When he looks up and sees them entering, Tybolt sees his eyes are deep blue and from the mouth that hangs open most of his teeth were missing. Old as he is, Arryn still seemed to have a strength in his eyes and his face was determined at he thrashed at whatever work he had been doing.

Baelish approaches and bows to Lord Jon. "My Lord Hand, I have the papers you requested." Arryn takes them and sighs sadly before muttering words that seem to have been out of Baelish's hearing.

"Robert drives us to the brink," he tells Petyr when his eyes lift the paper. "He will have fathered a bastard for every man lost in the rebellion before his day is done."

Baelish must be giving Arryn that sadists smile, because Lord Jon seems to shift uncomfortably in his seat. "There would be something to take comfort in it, I think. At least then His Grace would have taken some steps to do good - replacing lost sons with his own."

Lord Jon looks from Petyr to behind him, and sees Tybolt standing in the shadow of the door. Who is that, Petyr? Seemed to be the question on Lord Arryn's face but then his withered eyes notice his golden hair and gold flecked, brilliant green eyes. Then the look changes. "Another Lannister!" The old man shouts in astonishment.

Baelish looks back, grins at him, and turns back to The Hand of the King to whisper in his ear. Arryn's face contorts into a look of mistrust at him. When Petyr pulls away Lord Arryn dismisses him. As he leaves, Baelish throws a look at him. Your pocket is too tight and now you can pay for it, was no doubt what Baelish would have said and Tybolt would have brained him for saying it.

He approaches Lord Arryn and bows to him. "My Lord. I have have tried speaking with the King but now it seems you are the better person to speak to."  
"About what? How poor a job of being Hand I have done?"

Tybolts fingers rub against the tips of his thumbs before answering. "Is that what Lord Baelish told you? If it is, my lord, then I would advise you against it. He is the person I wish to speak of."

Arryn sighs. It is not the first he has dealt with Baelish's mischief. "What do you wish to complain about?" He asks gesturing to the chair opposite himself.  
Tybolt declines the offer. "Lord Baelish asked me for money. I was not inclined to accept the offer until having spoken with yourself or King Robert. However I know that Baelish has been asking for a lot money from a lot of different places, knowing full well he can't pay it back."

The Hand of the King waves his hand. "Baelish is Master of Coin and I have full confidence in his skills. In his time at Gulltown he tripled the profits of his other collectors."  
"Gulltown? Gulltown is a doghole, my lord."

Lord Arryn does not take that well. "A doghole?" He is astonished. "How can you say so?"

He shrugs. "I've been there."

A flash of anger. "As have I. And are you not aware that Gulltown is the center of Westerosi trade with Essos-"

He cuts in, "Through no choice of the Essosi, my lord. Compared with Braavos, and even the poorest ports in Essos, Gulltown is what Aegon the Fourth was to Daeron the Good. It swallows the money of the natives and the Essosi go with expanded purses, but the goods with which they trade are the ones they can't sell off in Essos because Gulltown offers tariffs that are too large and that can't be enforced so everyone just goes around them. Bribes are what make up the income of Gulltown, not the trade. If Baelish used the money he borrowed to fix these problems in the system he wouldn't have to borrow as much, instead he borrows and borrows, and before long he will be called upon to pay and when he can't the Iron Bank will put some in Robert's place who can." He ended with warning, "Let's not forget that Rhaegar wasn't the last dragon; he still has a brother and a sister."  
The Hand starres at him. "How do you know all of this?"

"I trained at the Iron Bank. And in the trade markets of Norvos and Braavos."

Arryn frowns. "I heard you were a sellsword in Essos."

"That too."

"Anything else?"

He smiles. "What would my lord like me to be?"

Jon Arryn rises and looks him full in the face: a rare thing with him. Out of habit he looks back. "Lord Tybolt, your reputation is bad." His first thought is to ask, I have a reputation? Baelish's slander and Cersei's gossip no doubt. He inclines his head.

"You don't defend yourself?"

"I think you are man enough to form your own opinion, my lord."

"I can. I will."

* * *

Tyrion is waiting for him when he gets back. "I had thought of sending Tyrek to find you. Where have you been?"

"With Lord Arryn."

The Imp looks up at him and frowns. "What did you want with him?"

He smiles. "Let's just say that we're Lord Arryn's men now."

His Valonqar looks up at him. "Cersei won't like it." Was his argument.

He thinks on it before shrugging. "I'm her big brother: she doesn't need to like it." Tyrion grunts, before he adds. "If it comes to it I'll deal with her." Tyrion allowed some comfort to be taken from that.


	4. Sibling Rivalry

**coldblue:** 1) In Essos he never really had a reputation so wide spread, which leaves it open for rumour and lies which he is not so fond of; look at Jaime and Cersei. 2) Not much, however he will venture to Dorne either next chapter or the one after. 3) We'll have to wait and see about the Starks, I'm afraid. 4) They'll definitely meet, but if they do ally it won't be till around early Clash of King's time. 5) I wasn't really considering any pairing just yet, but maybe Sansa, though I'm thinking the age gap might be to big and if it was it would probably be a far less creepier version of Baelish and Sansa's relationship. 6) In Essos he traded whatever was most valuable on the other side of the Narrow Sea, and he still does however he may dip into what Westeros has to offer the east.

* * *

 **Sibling Rivalry**

He sits across from the Lord Hand. "Now, Tybolt." Jon Arryn says as his head inclines upward to acknowledge him. "How good is your High Valyrian?"

"Rough. Military, you know. No good for anything outside an encampment."

The old man frowns at him, and for a moment he begins to fear how good the Hand of the King is at scoping out liars. "I thought that you took up service in the armies of Tolos."

He gives a modest shake of the head. "Tyrosh."

"Ah. And no fraternising?"

He smiles. "Not past a point. I can insult people in the Dragon Tongue if that helps you."

They are both smiling now. "I'll bear that in mind," the Lord Hand says. "Your time may come. For now... I was thinking of someone to deal with this diplomat from Slaver's Bay. Man wants to broker some kind of deal with us - steel and other goods in exchange for slaves."

"What do they want the steel for?"

"Wouldn't say, not that I care for trade. If I did I'd have no need for yourself and Baelish." In the corner, the fire dies, an ash covered log subsiding amidst the few still burning embers; Lord Arryn, wrapped in his own thoughts, rises from his chair and kicks it down in person. He stands looking down at it, twisting the ring on his finger. A beautiful deep blue, with the soaring falcon of House Arryn etched into the jewel. The old man looks at him with tired eyes and tells him, "Long day. Go home. Don't insult anyone - in Valyrian or other wise."

Before he leaves he stands in the doorway, smiling slowly. The Warden of the East smiles too, as if to say, where were you ten years ago. Before all of this mess and follies. Then Lord Arryn's head dips over to his papers. He is a man who, in his years of service to the realm, scarcely has time to sleep; three hours will refresh him, and he will be up to hear the tolling of the city bells at dawn to signal the start of another smokey day in King's Landing.

* * *

Outside in the courtyard his people are waiting with lights to take him home. A hand meets his arm when he approaches: Tyrek, with his slight and pale eyes. "Did he ask you about the diplomat? Everyone's been talking about it. Does he want you to go to Yunkai, or to Tolos?" Tyrek's smile flickers, the midnight wind is turning the torch light into a dull blur.

"I haven't to speak of it; Lord Arryn fears that I may insult someone if I do."

The lad frowns. In these passed two months at King's Landing he has never known his master to insult anyone, because that is Tyrion's job. Master Tybolt does his insulting in private and mostly through the rhetoric he has with Petyr Baelish, who is always keen on keeping an eye on them.

The streets are damp and deserted; the mist of the Blackwater Bay creeping over the city walls and skipping passed the gold cloaks patrols. Over the city, the stars are stifled by clouds, and amidst the floor of the street remain the rotting pieces of yesterdays market. Tyrek gives him the office news, while he comes up with a response for the diplomat, and whoever else it may concern: 'His Grace, King Robert, wholly rejects any offers of trade in which the Seven Kingdoms will be paid with slaves or such persons who are forced to work against their own will. He dismisses any such terms with the strongest amount of feelings.'

Someone is screaming down by the harbour. The boatmen are singing, and beyond that can be heard faint splashing; mayhaps they are drowning somebody. This weather makes his scars ache, but the way he walks inside of the Lion's Den it is as though it were still midday: smiling brightly.

Tyrion is still up. When the door is heard and the servants shuffling to greet their employer in good time, he waddles into the hall with one of the kitchen cats beside him. "Forget where you lived?

He sighs.

"How was Cersei?"

"Didn't see her."

"Jaime?"

He nods.

Finally, "And Lord Arryn?"

He nods.

"Eaten?"

"Yes."

"Tired."

"Not really."

"Drink." No question about that. "Arbor?"

"Dornish."

The panelling has been painted. He walks into a flood of gold and scarlet. "Father-" Tyrion begins.

"Letter?"

The dwarf hands over the unopened letter, while he fetches the wine. He sits down next to his big brother and takes a cup with each raise of his hand. "He greets us. Well one of us." Tyrion shrugs. "Hopes I am well. Hopes you are well. Hopes his beloved daughter, Cersei, and her twin, Jaime, are well. He himself is well. And for no more lack of time, your father, Tywin Lannister, Warden of West, Lannistport, ecsetra, ecsetra." He tears up the letter and tosses it aside.

His brothes face is placid. Shrugging, the Imp only says, "Jaime's letters are longer."

"What would you expect? He was always the favourite." The cat nibbles at his fingers, as his round innocent eyes stare up at him. "How's business?"

"Better than Lord Arryn. What was today's business?"

"He wanted me to deal with some diplomat from the Slaver Cities."

"Oh?"

"I told him my High Valyrian was no good."

Tyrion snorts into his cup. "You weasel."

"He doesn't have to know everything about me."

"Someone should." No, he thinks, Tyrion, they really shouldn't. It's the last thing said between them before going to bed.

* * *

Before dawn: time to get on with his day. He begins with writing out the letter for the diplomat, and waking Lancel up to send it to the right place. When the Hand asks him about he will say he has had someone paid to write the letter. By dawn he is washed, shaved and his fast is broken. Wrapped in linen and fine wool, he sits by on of the houses many fires.

This early it is time for him to miss his wife and her father, Wykys. That good old man, who would be up early, drop a hand on his head and say, Tybolt, enjoy yourself on my behalf.

In those days he'd been what - twenty-eight, twenty-nine - still new to Braavos. One of those old men who had mastered Water Dancing in their youth and could still go toe to toe with the young men who were learning it now. His family had been one of those odd balls in Braavos, being old enough to have a Sealord, but not rich enough to meet the bribes required to take the office, or keep it for that matter.

He is still thinking of Braavos when Tyrion arrives complaining about the horses in the stable being right beneath his window. Lucion is summoned to take the criticisms to account, while he goes to make the Crown money. When he checks all the counting books, Tybolt is amazed. Mayhaps, Petyr is not as incompetent as he thought. He slams closed the books and turns to the fool appointed to run the harbour.

"I've seen your stock," easily rectified. "I've seen your accounts," no room for fault in that department. "Now show me your clerks." That was the key, of course, the key that would unlock profit in this cesepool. People are always the key, and if you can look them in the face you can be pretty sure if they're honest and up to the job. He tossed the dubious chief clerk out saying, you go or I will tear you apart with my teeth. In his place they'd put the jammering junior, a boy that he'd been told was stupid. Timid, was all he was; he looked over his work each night, mindlessly and wordlessly indicating each errand omission, and the boy had already taken to following him around like a lost pup anyway. A few weeks invested and a few days in the harbour, checking who and what was being taken in: by the years end, this harbour should be back in profit.

These are good days for him: every day there is a battle he can win. While the Westerosi wakes up for prospect of morning prayers with the village septon, he wakes up to the gods who speak easily and with an infinity of gold; when Cersei is settling in for a session of self loathing, he and Tyrion are running across the city for the new horde of gold they can make. Not that he runs; an old wound drags from time to time.

"Tybolt Lannister?" people say. "That is an ingenious man. Do you know he has the whole of the Seven Pointed Star by heart?" He is the man that septons come to if an argument about the Gods break out; he is the man for telling your tenants twelve good reasons as to why their rent is far. Nobody can out talk him, should he wish to talk. "Tyrion," he says to his little brother in the hall, "I believe in a year or two we'll be rich."

The dwarf smiles. "If Cersei gets her way, we'll be needling her dresses."

"If it comes to that, I'd leave the needles in."

"Well you'd better be ready for a good pricking. She wants to see you," Tyrion tells him.

"Will Jaime be there?"

"I doubt it. I think she wants to put you in your place." Tyrion's eyes were glowing.

"Well then, I'll be on my best behaviour."

* * *

He arrives at the Red Keep before dinner. The ravens of the Keeps Maesters, penned into the keeping yards, are crying out for their free kin on the Blackwater and further inland. Some children of Lord Arryn's household are playing in the yard, but when he walks in they part like the sea. They know that being as generous as Lord Arryn, he will gives them a copper each for their civility.

There eyes light up at the sight of a shiny, gold, dragon being laid into their palms, for which they grace him with conversation. "So, you are going to see the evil lady. She has bewitched the king, you know? And has the worst things to say about the Hand. Do you have a holy medal or a token to protect you, m'lord?"

"I used to, but I lost it."

"You should ask the Hand," one child says. "He will get you another."

These rooms in the Red Keep are vaguely familiar, though he would have recognized them better if blood was on the walls and the scent of a burning city in his nostrils. As he passes on toward his sister's inner layer, he sees a half-familiar face in a white cloak and says, "Preston?" The fellow detaches himself from the wall where he is leaning. "It's been a while. How are you?"

A sulky shrug.

"It must feel different to be here, now that the world is so different."

"No."

"You don't miss my lord father?"

A tightening of a jaw. Tybolt still remembers the teeth he knocked out of that mouth. "No."

"You are happy?"

"Yes," through gritted teeth.

The room in which his sister resides is a part of the castle built by the Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen in her year as queen, her own face being etched into the wall above his sisters head. The Princess put Cersei to shame: sharp and shallow. She stood by the window, her fingers tugging enviously on her sleeves and ripping some of the thread trimmings. When she sees him she releases it, hand dipping back away to hide from him.

The King is out hunting, taking Jaime with him and her sons would no doubt be with their maester and septa learning. She is alone and bored; so she's reduced to sending for her brother and whatever entertainment she can get out of him.

Various women are sitting on low stools, sewing or pretending to. One of them Jocelyn Swyft, a cousin of their's by marriage through Ser Kevan. She had served Cersei on and off at Casterly Rock for more than a few years, depending whenever Cersei bored of her. She keeps her head down. Another one is Alysanne Lefford, still looking all pink and white.

The Lefford heiress looks him over quietly and a series of expressions run wild across her face. Who's this beggar? Oh, Gods it's him. He's alive. And finally, is this the best I could have gotten?

Back in the shadows there is another girl, who has her face turned away, trying to hide. He does not blame Princess Myrcella for trying to hide from her mother in the back of the room. Cersei seems to inspire it; looking fixedly at the floor as the others do. His sister expects him to do the same, or bow at the very least. In not doing so he offends her.

"Brother," she says to him with a warming smile and eyes of contempt. "Why is suddenly everything about you? The court and Jon Arryn seem to have nothing but praise for you. The Lord Hand does not cease in quoting yourself, or so he would have us think. You are so right on all points, he tells us, that you are at all points to be quoted. It's sending me insane."

He cocks his head. "Did you just want someone to complain too? Or am I here for a better purpose?"

Her glare is furious, and for an instant Tybolt is reminded of his mother in a temper. The way her whitened teeth snag and gnaw on her lips makes her look as though she would eat him alive. "I heard you have become a regularity in the Tower of the Hand." He shrugs and she demands an elaboration. "What is the talk?"

"The trials and tribulations of trade." He tells her: an answer that does not please her in the slightest. Sighing, he says, "if you don't tell me what you want to know I can't tell you, Cersei." Not that I would tell you if you did.

She lets all the air in her lungs blow out through her nose. "I want to know why you are working for Lord Arryn."

"And why I haven't gone back to the Rock, no doubt."

The reply incenses her. Biting on her tongue she warns him, "Careful, brother. You may have forgotten, but I know the truth about you."

Holding back the flicker of alarm is difficult, but most of the women do not see it. Most. Not Cersei; she sees it and smiles. Smiles and thinks that she has him. Nothing left to do now but call her bluff. "Which truth would that be, Cersei?"

Her head lifts to display her proudchin and sharp cheek bones, as her eyes continue to glare at him heavily. "You killed a man. Gregory Lorch: in cold blood." The cat like grin of their mother spread across her lips. "You're a murderer."

Not a stitch have the women added to their sewing since he has been in the room. His turn to smile. "Did I?" Shrugging makes her flinch. "You know nothing, Cersei. There were a lot of men in Lannisport that day. Ask any of them, they'll all tell you the same thing. Besides, Gregory was stabbed. Do I look like the kind of man to carry a knife?"

"Very well," she says when he stops. "Very well we will discuss this later. One thing. One simple thing I asked of Lord Arryn, and he would not deliver. One simple thing."

"If my lord Hand could not deliver it then it was not simple."

"Perhaps I am a simple person," snaps the Queen. "Do you feel I am?"

"You may be. Let's be honest, Cersei, I hardly know you."

Her resolve impresses him. She has not approached and slapped him yet. You may go, she says: and Alysanne Lefford jumps to follow him out.

* * *

The heiress to the Golden Tooth is flushed red, her lips are parted. She's brought her sewing with her, which he thinks is strange; but perhaps, if she leaves it behind, his sister will pull the stitches out . "We thought she might run up and slap you. Will you come again? Jocelyn and I can't wait."

"If she can stand it," he says. Alysanne tells him that his sister enjoys a skirmish with someone that isn't King Robert. He notices the stitching in her hand. "What are you working on there?" he asks, and she shows him. House Lannister's coat of arms. On everything that it can be, stands the roaring lion of Casterly Rock: coifs, veils, banners, walls, doublets and wall hangings; she has garments that no one has ever worn before just so their father's lion can be sewn onto it, which Cersei can then call her own.

...

"And how are you?" It seems discourteous not to ask, this woman who he may or may not have been married to had the dowry been smaller, and he had not broken the arm of her cousin a week before it was meant to be settled.

She looks surprised. "Well enough," her eyes swivel round and glare into the room from whence she came. "Though your sister keeps us worn down. She and the King..."

"They quarrel. Or so one hears."

"They never stop. Your sister never stops," she says, laughing. "If she weren't his queen, you could pity Robert for the dog's life Cersei leads him."

"My brother heard rumour that Cersei might be -"

"Yes, there have, but she's not. She can't, because they don't. Haven't since the youngest prince."

A blonde eyelash of his raises. "She'd tell you?"

"Out of spite, mayhaps." She shrugs, "When ever there's a feast he might get lucky. Once Robert got close to it; pulled down her shift and started kissing her breasts, in front of everyone!"

"Good man if he can find them."

Alysanne laughs; a boisterous and unladylike laugh, which must have been heard by his sister, because Myrcella, small and hiding still, moves into hall. "Lady Lefford," she says, "My Lady Mother wants you." Lady Lefford snaps her patience and turns on her heels, dress whipping behind herwith the ease of long practice.

He is left alone with his niece, who looks up at him expectantly. "Mother says that we shouldn't speak with you anymore." The Princess tells him.

By 'we' he assumes she means her siblings. He smiles down at the little lioness. She's so small, and her skin pale enough to be mistaken for being translucent. Loose golden curls fold down across her shoulders and back. For him, it's almost like starring at a ghost. "I imagine she says that same about your Uncle Tyrion." A childish blush creeps on to her face before she nodded her head.

"But you still see him anyway." Her eyes went to the size of a side plate and her face the colour of the capes her mother's guards use. He holds out a hand for her. "Would you like to come see him?"

She looks back toward the lair in which her mother lies. "Mother wouldn't like it." It seems despite the good will and generous things that Tyrion and Jaime say of him, Myrcella is still not as comfortable with him as her brothers are. Her wide eyes look up at him in wonder. " _Do_ you carry a knife?"

He smiles; she would make a better lord than him. Opening the cuff of his left sleeve he shows her the glint of steel strapped to his wrist. She seems unfazed at the presence of an armed, more powerful, person than herself in the room; Ser Uncle Jaime has a sword, why should his older brother not have his weapon. "Dagger," he supplies the child. "In case you'd like to correct your mother."

She smiles and asks to be shown it closer. The steel is gilded, and holds as sharp an edge as can be curved into an eagles talon. When asked where he got it, he says he bought it and, correctly, she thinks he is lying still, but this time he stares her out.

"Are you sure you don't want to see your uncle?"

Regretfully, the princess shakes her head. "Yes," and turns back toward the chambers of her mother. "But I can't."

"Next time?" He offers. She accepts the promise.

* * *

When he arrives at home the boys are at their own dinner alone, Tyrion having left for a brothel. They move to rise and greet him, but he insists they do not. He runs his eyes along the knives laid out for carving their chosen meats. With a look at one, he decides it needs sharpening and takes it in hand. Standing behind Lancel, he asks, "Do you think I look like a murderer? In your good opinion, cousin?"

Their jaws drop and bodies stiffen. After a while, it is Lucion who mumbles, "At this moment, master, I would have to say..."

"No, obviously, but suppose I was on my way to see the Hand. Can you picture yourselves? Carrying papers and ink, the like?"

"A clerk would carry those." Tyrek says, recalling their own roles more or less.

He points the point at him, but keeps the blunt edge trained on Lancel. "So you can't picture it?" Lancel removes the hat he, and turns it inside out. He looks to see if his brains are inside it, or at least some response for him to give.

"Not like a murderer, no." An eager Lucion claims.

"But," squeaks Lancel, "if you will forgive me, master, you always look like a man who knows how to carve up someone."

Scared shitless, he leaves the boys back to their meal, only to almost stumble over Tyrion, a whore trailing behind him with wine and each a gentle sway that matches the dwarf's own. His little brother only has to take one sharp look up at him to know how it went with Cersei.

"Did she bite your bollocks off?" slurres the Imp, to the giggle of his whores, whom are no doubt expecting to be paid extra for laughing.

He produces his eagles talon. "Do I look like a murderer?" He questions the whores.


	5. Old instincts, old names, same man

**LordTaurusBlack** **:** Given as you begged, I will.

 **coldblue:** 1) With out giving too much away, I can tell you that he has some interaction with Daenerys already. 2) In Dorne, not warmly welcomed. However, Doran's and Oberyn's reactions will be very different from that and each others. 3) He'll have his suspicions after meeting him, but most likely he won't find anything concrete.

* * *

 **Old instincts, old names, same man**

When he hears the name the Smallfolk have given this illustrious house of his, he smiles. He laughs. And that night goes to Tyrion and informs him of its new title, who has the same response as him. The next day they agree to have a plaque made, with the Lannister lion, painted black, and beneath it the new name, the Lion's Den.

It is a place where you have little chance being alone, or alone with another person. A place where every letter of the alphabet watches you, and numbers keep following you around the room. In the counting house resides young Lancel, whom they are training up to take a grip on private finances. This place has become the centre of King's Landing, with no shortage of apprentices waiting to be taken on.

Normally, this would the kind of things he leaves Tyrion to do, but he reads one name on the list of them that catches his eye. Olyvar Raleigh, pronounced Rally. He interviews the boy.

Sitting across from him, the boy says, "Wroleigh. It's spelled: W - R - O - L... Just call me Rally."

He, Tybolt, stares silently at the boy who shifts in his chair. Nervous, and rightly so. At the start of this meeting the boy had been smiling, a toothy one at that, hands on the table, the tips of his finger brushing at his knuckles. Flirting, you might have called it, or seduction.

No longer. The boys hands have withdrawn from the table, picking at one another or grasping at the sides of the chair as though he were holding a chamber pot to his arse.

"You used to work for the Lord Hand, I hear."

"Yes, ser."

"But then you were carried away by Lord Petyr." He looks up from the piece of parchment to the boy's face. His eyebrow raise, demanding an explanation.

"Oh!" Olyvar blushes, "I- eerrr..." The boy fumbles around with his answer. Clearly, he did not think to have been taken this seriously. Either that, or Baelish has not made his position clear to him. "I'm his clerk." He decides upon. "But it doesn't occupy all my time and I'm keen to learn something of business, ser."

A smile breaks across his face. "Oh, we're all business here at the Lion's Den," he looks passed Wroleigh, "aren't we, boys?"

Tyrek and Lucion have the door, and when he sees that they have been watched all this time Olyvar gasps and stands abruptly. Taller than him, Master Wroleigh has red-blonde hair, but without the pale complexion of most people he has seen with hair like that. He is clearly uncomfortable not being his usual handsome self.

After they escort him out, they come back to him and report their analysis. "He's Baelish's spy, for certain."

Laughing, he says, "Well, he seems obliging. Perhaps we could send him back to spy on Baelish."

He takes on Olyvar. A bright fellow, it turns out and well connected through the king of work Baelish has him doing part time. The rest of that time he is in and out of the house; be it with Lucion, learning the workings of how they now manage all the goods that pass through there enterprise; or pretending to gather information for Lord Petyr.

On his way out to see Jon Arryn one night, the boy catches him and offers thanks, telling him how much preferable it is to be working for him than it is Petyr.

How unfortunate it is that he does not of how the other boys mock him behind his back. Tyrek and Lancel mimic him and say, "My name is Olyvar Wro-leigh, but you can call me Rally." They say that he only complicates his name so he can come into their home and use their ink.

It is in this knowledge that he smiles at Call-me-Rally, and accept his thanks.

When he arrives in Lord Arryn's solar there is a aura of not quite at ease in the room. "You know the Spider?" He is asked. "Varys?"

Being unfazed by the Lord Hand's troubles he offers, "Not personally. But I know enough about him."

Jon Arryn, who looks mockingly agahst, says. "And here I thought you knew everyone." They share smiles before the Hand goes on to inform him that the Spider wishes an audience, and because Lord Arryn is unnerved by the eunuch he too must be here, to provide easy council for afterward.

However, they have at least a good hour before the Spider is to arrive so a fire is lit and they occupy two chairs beside it. "So," he says to Lord Arryn, "has your lordship heard-" then he stops and considers. "No, forgive me, it is not fir for your ears."

"What?" The Hand looks at him, demanding.

"It is only a rumour. I would not like to mislead you."

"You cannot begin to speak and then not. Tell me now, you must."

"It is only what the women are saying. The silk women. And wives of cloth merchants." They both wait for each other to give ground, smiling. "Which is of no use to you, I'm sure."

Laughing, the Hand pushes back his chair; in union, his shadow rises with him. Firelit, it leaps. Arryn's arm darts out, reaching long and far for him, like the hand of the Father, or his father's mayhap.

But when the Father closes his hand, his subject is flung from the chair and across the room, back to a wall, fighting old instincts not to whip out the eagle's talon at his wrist.

Only now does the Hand give ground. His shadow wavers. Wavers, and comes to rest above him. He is still. The wall records the movements of his breath. His head inclines, examining the handful of nothing. After due deliberation, he retracts it putting flat against his sits down again. His head bows; face half dark.

He, Tybolt, but also Tyb, Thunder, and Tion Hill, withdraws the previous incarnations of himself into his present body and edges back to where he was before. His shadow slides against the wall, a visitor not sure of his welcome. Which of these long dead men saw the blow coming? There are moments when memory moves right through you. You weave, you duck, you pull back; or past takes your fist and puts you back there, with out intervention against it. Suppose you had actually taken out the dagger, and gripped it in your fist? That's how murder happens.

He says something, Lord Arryn says something. They break off. The Hand retakes his seat. He hesitates in front of him; before sitting down. Arryn says, "I really would like the gossip from you, though I wasn't planning on beating the information from you."

There is a silence between them.

When it is broken, the Lord Hand is asking him a different question. He's questioning the glint of silver he sees jutting out of his wrists. His reply is more menacing than intended. "What I would have killed you with." Arryn raises an eyebrow, grey and withered. Given this response, Tybolt reveals the curved blade of iron.

"What would you call it?"

Frowning as he slides it back up his wrist, he answers, "What is the word? I don't know the Common Tongue for it." Perhaps there is no word in the Common Tongue for it: the short blade that, at close quarters, opens your throat, pushes under your ribs or splits open the knees of your opponent.

"And this was...?"

Some ten years ago perhaps. The lesson was learned and learned well. Night, the heart of Essos; the outskirts of a forest, on the shores of the river Rhoyne beneath a pattern of summer stars; a mass of tents visible on the otherside of the river, each one would try and gut him on the morrow. But tonight, a shape slipping against the sand. He didn't see his assassin, but he saw his shadow move.

"All the same..." says the Hand. "It is more than sixty years ago that I first went sword to sword with another man. He will be long dead, I suppose. And your man?" He pauses. "Long dead too?"

It is the most delicate way contrived, to ask a man if he has killed another person.

"And in one of the Hells, I should think. If your lordship pleases."

That makes Lord Jon smile; not the mention of some hell, but the assumption as to the breadth of his jurisdiction. "So if you attacked the young Lannister, you went straight to a fiery pit?"

"You should have seen him, my Lord. Too dirty for the Mother's mercy. The love of the Maiden can do much, we are told, but it wouldn't have washed this one clean." Mother Rhoyne's waters couldn't do, gods know.

"I am for a spotless world," Arryn says. He looks sad, morbid even. "Have you asked for forgiveness, and confessed to a septon?"

"It was a long time ago."

"Have you asked for forgiveness, and confessed to a septon?"

"My lord Hand, I was a soldier."

"Soldiers have hope of a heaven."

He looks into Arryn's face. There is no telling of what he believes. He says, "We all have that." Soldiers, beggars, kings, lords.

"So you were a ruffian in your youth."

"That would be putting it mildly."

"It matters not." He broods. "This dirty man who attacked you... Godly sort?"

He smiles. "I didn't ask."

"These tricks of the memory," the Hand smiles. "Tybolt, I shall try not to move without giving you warning. And that way, we shall do very well together."

But the Hand of the King looks him over; he is puzzling. It is early in their association and his character, as dictated by the Hand, is at a work in progress. Weeks to come, the Hand will tell people of the court, "I often wonder about the life of a lord, especially as applied to the young. My new man, Tybolt Lannister, for instance - Oh yes, that Tybolt Lannister. Lord Tywin's estranged eldest; the one, you will recall, who blackened the eye of every squire and page at the Rock. That one who the whole realm still wonders what friendship Prince Rhaegar saw in him - his youth was secluded, spent entirely reading and dutifully sparring, and studying his father's every decision. That is why he remains so wild nowadays.

And when say, is he? - recalling as best they can, what they knew and what they know of the man who now seems oddly discreet; when they say, really? your new man, that Tybolt Lannister? the Hand will shake his head and say, of course I try and mend things. When he breaks the windows, we just call in the glaziers and part with the gold. As for that procession of aggrieved young women... Poor creatures, I pay them off...

However, tonight they are back to business. "Come, Tybolt, that rumour."

"The women judge that, from a new order of silk, that Lord Renly, the King's brother, has a new-" He breaks off and asks, "My lord, what do you call a whore when she is a lord's daughter?"

"To her face, 'my lady.' Behind her back? Well which lord is it?"

From behind them, "That I might answer for you, my lords."

Varys, the eunuch, has allowed himself in. How long he has been there? Not long, else he would have felt the presence, for a certainty, he would have seen the shadow, just like he had the assassin's. The Spider: plump, completely bald, and effeminate. He has soft white hands. He powders his face and smells of lilacs.

He remembers a smiling threat of Baelish's, "Watch yourself, Lannister. The eunuch has little birds fluttering around all of your people. It would seem mine and Jon Arryn's interest in you is contagious." His thought to that had been, if this eunuch comes to me as Baelish does, I'll beat his fucking skull in.

"Lord Varys," Jon Arryn welcomes him like he had no truer friend in the world, but when the eunuch and his hand's touch, a contagious shiver runs by the Lord of the Vale. "Come then tell us."

They move away from the comfort of the fire, and back the desk at which the Lord Hand works. Arryn occupies his usual seat, Varys opposite him, in the chair that normally he would take, but instead he retires to a corner.

The Spider finishes the rumour he was about to relay. They involve Lady Margaery Tyrell, daughter of that most revered Lord Mace Tyrell, whose titles include: Lord of Highgarden, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach, and Warden of the South. Lady Margaery, it seems, has been peaked the interest of Lord Renly. And Lord Mace, it would seem, has done little, if anything, to discourage either party.

In his corner, he withdraws from the conversation. It occurs to him how his own daughters might have followed him over the sea, had they lived. They might have grown up to marry lords like Renly Baratheon; it makes him shudder.

He recalls his youngest, Grace, stood like an angel one night: in front of the firelight, face white with fatigue, her green eyes glittering and the peacock feathers of her dress shimmering, golden and topaz. His wife had said, "Stand away from the fire, sweetheart, or your feathers will catch fire."

His little girl backed off into the shadow; the feathers had turned black by the time she was moving up the stairs. He'd said, "Grace, are you going to bed in your dress?"

"Till I say my prayers," she told him, a look darting over her shoulder. He followed her, afraid for her, of fire and some other danger he couldn't quite name.

Ah, Gods, he thinks listening to the eunuch, at least I'll never have to give her to someone else. She's dead and I'll not have to sign her away to some purse-mouthed petty gent or one of Lord Tywin's retainers, whose father's nose was probably busted open by his fist, and only care for the dowry. Grace would have wanted a title: Lady Grace.

Tuning back into the Spider's silken voice, it seems that the reason Mace Tyrell has not discouraged the match is because he hopes to ally with the Lord of Storm's End, and by brotherly love and family ties the Crown. And what would you do with such an alliance. Attack northward? No, Lord Tywin would sew the fields of the Reach in fire. South, and Dorne. Because that ten thousand year old rivalry has never been so tense, ever since a certain Viper crippled the Highgarden. Tyrell would like revenge; or simply show his might.

As proof, King Robert's spymaster shows a letter he has acquired from Highgarden, thus settling any doubts had of the Hand of the King. Arryn rises, "Thank you, my lord. If this is all?" The eunuch bows his head, and the Lord Hand shoos him away. After the door closes behind Lord Varys, he says, "A trickey situation, Tybolt."

He says nothing, and the Hand paces. The cogs turn slowly in his head, piecing together some plan to dissolve this match. Marching from one side of the room to the other, Lord Arryn continues to ponder. This is a bigger problem than can be seen, and thorn in the side of a plan of the Hand's. A plan which has been set in since Greyjoy's rebellion. Though, to delay the match would be to delay the war - if this Tyrell couldn't find a war another one a few years down the line, or if not a Martell will. Who's to say the next heir of Highgarden to run against a Martell won't stand back up afterward.

"I suppose some accord could be reached," The Hand says. "If the good will is there." A pause: the Hand thinking what would be needed to change thousands of years of human nature.

At last the Hand looks at him in his corner, waiting for some small reaction. His servant simply looks back at him. Unnerved by the silence Lord Arryn says, "I should send someone to Highgarden, and then onto Dorne. Baelish mayhaps."

Only once he has returned to the firelight does he answer. "So if you send Lord Baelish to them it will give these qualms, if I may-"

The Hand nods: you may dub it so."

"- a public airing?"

Arryn quickly supplies, "Baelish may go discreetly. As it were, for a report on the Kingdoms."

"You don't understand Dorne."

The Hand of the King can hardly contradict him, though it is interesting that he does not question his servants knowledge. "Put simply, the Red Viper's spies will guess what Petyr is about before he even sets foot on dry land. And by the time he reaches Prince Doran what ever price he wishes to have will be fixed, if indeed he wishes to discuss it - and I tell you now my lord, most likely that price will set off another blood feud." He shrugs. "This I know."

"Very well," the Hand turns away, as if to formulate a new plan, but it seems the old man can surprise even him. "I shall send you instead."

He's glad that the Lord Hand has his back to him, the look of astonishment on his face would seem like a surrender and couldn't hidden easily. "Me, my lord?"

"You. Who else but you?"

"It would be difficult, my lord."

"But not impossible. I don't care what you have to do, Tybolt. Find away and just do it."

"As you say, though if I am to be discreet, I cannot go straight south."

"Where must you go?"

He thinks, "The Rock. And go south from there via the Ocean Road. In order to get things rolling, I will need a letter from yourself and the King. To say I speak with both your voices."

Arryn agrees, "I will get you them. When might you leave?"

"A week."

A flash of fear jumps across the Lord Hand's face. "So soon?" He might as well have said, don't leave me here with Baelish.

"It would be more practical. Although, if you should have need of someone like me, get my brother."

"The Kingslayer?!" He is aghast at the thought.

"The dwarf." A crinkle of disapproval peaks on Arryn's brow. He smoothes it out quickly. "He can be relied upon to say what I would."

"If you are sure..."

"I am certain."

They bow to each, so that he can depart and begin putting affairs in order. Just as he's about to exit, the Lord says a whisper that carries over to him. "Gods preserve you, Tybolt."


End file.
